Free Murder Unmentionable by Meg London Page B

the door, and Pierre shot into the room, tail wagging furiously. He greeted Emma, then Brian, then, after turning around three times, settled on his toile dog bed, panting happily.
    “Oh, they’re magnificent!” Arabella exclaimed when she saw the new cabinets.
    Brian beamed. “You like them?”
    Arabella nodded her head. “Very much so.” She turned toward Emma. “Excellent idea, my dear.” She opened one of the cabinets and peered inside.
    Emma tossed the newspaper on the counter and joined Arabella. She tried the doors, opening and closing them. “They’re gorgeous.” She smiled over her shoulder at Brian.
    He ducked his head. “Glad you like them.”
    Emma stuck her purse under the counter, and was about to tuck the newspaper next to it, when she noticed the front page. Her heart jumped into her throat as she spread open the paper and read the headline.
    “Oh, no.”
    “What’s wrong, dear?” Arabella turned toward Emma with concern.
    Emma held up the newspaper where the headline
Murder At Sweet Nothings—Owners Questioned
made a bold, black slash across the front page.
    Arabella put a hand to her chest. “That almost makes it sound as if the police think we’re guilty.”
    Emma put the paper on the counter and began skimming the article.
    “The headline sums it up,” Emma said when she’d finished reading, her stomach flipping over and plummeting to the level of her knees. She looked from Arabella to Brian.
    “You know what they say,” Arabella put an arm around Emma. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
    Emma glanced at the headline again. “I wish I could believe that.”
    Two sharp knocks sounded on the front door.
The armoires?
Emma wondered. She remembered how she’d thought that the last time and instead had found Guy standing on the doorstep. She hesitated momentarily, then hurried to the door and pulled it open.
    “Oh.”
    A very diminutive woman stood on the mat. She had a paisley scarf tied gypsy-style around her head, and large hoops dangled from her drooping earlobes. A portable oxygen tank stood slightly behind her, and a recently extinguished cigarette was by her right foot. Surely it was dangerous to smoke around oxygen. It was lucky they all hadn’t been blown to kingdom come.
    “Can I help you?”
    The woman stared back at Emma. “Who are you?” Her heavy New York accent came as a surprise.
    “Sylvia.” Arabella rushed over to the door. “Come on in.”
    The woman eased her way into Sweet Nothings, the oxygen tank bumping along in back of her.
    “This is my niece, Emma Taylor. She’s down from New York to help me with the shop.” Arabella turned toward Emma. “This is Sylvia Brodsky. She’s from New York, too. She moved down here last year with her son and daughter-in-law when her son was transferred.”
    “I’m not living with them, though. Got my own place above The Taffy Pull.” Sylvia gave a long, hacking cough. “Didn’t want to be an inconvenience. Besides, I got my little side business going and don’t want to disturb my son and his wife the princess with people coming and going.”
    “Side business?”
Is she the woman Arabella had hired to do the ironing?
Emma wondered.
    Sylvia shook her head, and her earrings bobbed back and forth. “I do tarot readings and hold séances. Last week we contacted Loralee’s late husband. She’s the one who runs A Good Yarn, the craft and knitting store on the corner.”
    “Oh.” Emma honestly couldn’t think of a single other thing to say.
    “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She maneuvered her way farther into the shop and perched on the end of a chair. “The night that young man was killed in your shop.” She pointed a finger at Emma. “He was your fellow, wasn’t he?”
    Emma opened her mouth, but Sylvia didn’t wait for an answer.
    “I was looking out my window. Billy Bob Winthrop—he’s the football coach over at the high school—had booked a reading, and he was late. So